Presently she returned with the doctor. “You can go in,” he said.
Stacey pulled him aside a little way. “It won’t do any harm?” he demanded hoarsely.
“No, no harm. Better to let her have her way. There’s nothing to be done. The bullet missed the heart and penetrated the lung instead. The wound is dressed. Be as calm as you can.”
“There’s no hope?”
“Not the faintest. She is—well, there’s no hope,” replied the doctor, rather kindly.
“Just a minute, then,” said Stacey. He leaned against a wall and struggled for composure. Then he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “All right,” he said, and went through the door with the doctor and Marian’s mother.
The room beyond was hushed, cool and darkened. Mrs. Latimer led Stacey to the bedside, then withdrew to a distant corner of the room and stood there, motionless, with the nurse and the doctor. When he looked that way he could see them like dim figures in the background of some faded Venetian picture.
“Is that Stacey?” asked a thin voice.
“Yes,” he murmured, and knelt by the bed.
Marian was propped up within it, and her face, that was turned sideways toward him on the pillows, was like alabaster, thin, veined and bloodless; but her beauty was unmarred, heightened even—like a statue of her beauty. The only color anywhere was in her bright hair that was spread about the pillow.